Santa Claus Santa’s Dick Is Coming to Town
What was supposed to be a quiet little Christmas Eve with my husband, daughters, and closest friends had turned into a cabin filled with what felt like half of the Mavericks football team and my dad prancing around the house in his favorite pair of thermal underwear. Keep your friends close and your dicks closer, I could hear him saying now while Quinn Bailey, Cassie’s brother Sean, Cam Mitchell, and a handful of other huge, tree trunk-thighed men laughed. Apparently, our cabin in the Catskills had become Dick’s stage, and he was tossing out dad jokes like he was trying to win a gig on Comedy Central.
Where had everything gone wrong? First, Dick and Savannah showing up apropos of nothing, and now, the football team. I mean, it wasn’t the entire Mavericks football team, but still, it was too much chaos, too many people, and I had my doubts that this many uninvited guests could have found their way here without help.
Sabotage.
Skeptical, I glanced around the room, taking in all of the possible suspects.
Cassie, Thatch, Wes, Winnie, my freakin’ husband, the list of prospective defectors had my head spinning.
My gut instinct and my heart told me my husband wasn’t in on the scam. He was a man who lived his life with two priorities: keeping his family happy and safe. Obviously, ruining my Christmas plans would not equal a happy wife. Nor would it equate to his safety.
Would my best girlfriends really try to fuck up Christmas?
Win might’ve been a bit of a hard-ass in the locker room, but she was a softy to her core. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that it was her, though. She was a mom, had been one longer than the rest of us, and sometimes mothers do things based on what they think is best. I’d have to keep my eye on her.
Cassie was notorious for pranks, but she knew how important this holiday was to me, not to mention, she’d seen me at my craziest moments. She might’ve been spontaneous and impulsive, but she did have some self-preservation. Right?
“Come on, Thatcher, smack it harder,” she yelled from the back porch. I glanced outside to see that they’d set up a piñata for the kids—but were partaking themselves.
Maybe she doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation.
The odds of Thatcher inviting my parents and the entire goddamn football team were slim to none, considering he knew his wife would murder him in his sleep if he pulled off this horrible of a prank on her nearest and dearest friend without her help—which of course, didn’t rule them out as a team.
Wes wasn’t normally the type of guy to meddle in someone else’s plans, but he was ruthless in business and controlled any and every aspect of his football team, so I supposed he had it in him.
Basically, I had too many leads without enough strategy, and everyone was still a possible suspect.
Aside from Kline. Because, honestly, if he was involved, I hoped I never found out. I needed him too much to divorce him, and a marriage without sex—because I’d have to punish him somehow—sounded like pure torture.
“Stop looking at everyone like you’re thirty seconds away from bringing out a polygraph test,” Cassie muttered under her breath as she gently nudged me with her elbow, obviously having come inside from the back porch. I glanced out the window to see Thatch assisting Julia as she swung a broomstick wildly.
Was it possible to order a polygraph test on Christmas Eve? Surely, Amazon still had free shipping with Prime…
“Seriously. Georgia. Take a breath.”
I looked away from the living room that held eight too many fucking football players and met Cassie’s eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re the exact opposite of fine.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re completely pissed off right now,” she whispered.
I shrugged. “I’m just disappointed.” I glanced at the giant, rustic clock hanging above the mantle. It was half past four. Now, prior to everything falling apart, we would be finishing up ice skating and drinking hot chocolate. But since the players couldn’t risk injury, and Lex and my father wouldn’t leave their side—and Wes wouldn’t leave Lex’s side, and Winnie wouldn’t leave his, and so on—the original perfectly planned-out Christmas agenda had flown out the window faster than my dad was tossing out jokes.
Cassie wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “It’s all going to be okay, honey.”
“That’s what you said when my parents parked a house on wheels in my front yard, and look what happened after that. Practically an entire professional football team showed up unannounced.”
“Well…if it makes you feel any better…unless your dad starts telling jokes naked, I highly doubt it could get any worse at this point.”
I groaned. “Are you trying to jinx me?”
She laughed quietly, and I glared.
“Okay. Okay. I take back the words I just said—”
“It’s too late for that. They’ve already been unleashed into the universe. Surely, they are already working their black magic to ruin what’s left of this Christmas.”
She ignored my words. “I want you to realize one thing,” she said and held me closer to her side, “you have a cabin filled with everyone you love the most, and you know what?”
“What?” I asked, petulance seeping from my voice.
“Every single one of these people loves you too. Crazy. Insane. Adoring kind of love. You’re the reason we’re all here together to celebrate Christmas.”
I was pretty sure I was not the reason for the football players, but I was becoming more and more suspicious of Cassie. She kept trying to make all this shit all right.
She’s supposed to be commiserating with me!
“It’s the truth, Georgia,” she reaffirmed her words. “Just remember that.”
“Ugh. You’re making too much sense right now,” I said and let out a long and exasperated breath as I wiggled out of her hold and headed for the kitchen. “Go drink some eggnog or something.”
“Man, oh man, I forgot how sassy pissed-off Wheorgie is.” Cassie grinned.
I flipped her the middle finger as I opened the fridge to figure out how in the hell I was going to feed all of these people. Sure, the pancake situation at breakfast was easy to solve, but dinner? Not so much. It was the complete opposite. I’d planned out a delicious, gourmet meal for six adults and five kids, but I hadn’t calculated enough food for that number to very nearly double.
It was almost five p.m., and panic was starting to really set in.
What were all of these people going to eat?
Cripes, where in the hell were they going to sleep tonight?
I just needed a minute. Hell, maybe I needed an hour.
A few quiet and relaxing moments, far away from punch lines and my dad’s thermal underwear, were exactly what the doctor would probably order for me right now.
The doctor being someone who was a psychiatrist who was trying to avoid committing me to a psych ward.
With a quick glance back into the living room, I noted that my mother had Evie in her lap and Kline had Julia on his shoulders. Yeah, I could definitely steal a few moments away for myself before I spontaneously combusted from anxiety.
The instant I reached our bedroom, I shut the door and threw myself onto the bed with a groan.
For the next few minutes, I alternated between praying, screaming into a pillow, and crying.
I felt so damn emotional, if it weren’t for the fact that I was on birth control and I’d just finished my period a few days ago, I’d be wondering if I was pregnant.
Somehow, someway, I had to find a way to slap a smile on my face and work through the roadblocks that were now affecting my Christmas Eve agenda.
Things like: How could I feed an extra ten mouths? Where could I find enough pillows, blankets, and air mattresses to sleep half a football team? Or, what was the safest way to lock my father in a closest to proactively prevent a fire or explosion or something else equally as terrible?
I ran through the list of issues in search of solutions, and by the time I’d repeated the same thought process with the same, no-answer results, I decided that maybe I just needed some namaste in my life.
I was thirty seconds into Downward-Facing Dog when a conversation I never thought I’d hear reached my fucking ears.
“Ace! Ace! Come see Santa’s Dick!” My daughter’s voice echoed off the walls and straight into my bedroom.
“Santa’s Dick?” Ace questioned. “Where, Lia?”
“Downstairs! Come downstairs and see Santa’s Dick!”
Santa’s Dick?
What in the ever-loving fuck was happening?
Little footsteps ran past my bedroom and down the wooden staircase, and I went from downward dog to upward mom on the warpath in mere seconds.
“Kline!” I shouted as I jogged down the stairs. “Kline!”
Please, for the love of God, tell me my husband has control over whatever the hell is happening right now!
At the bottom of the stairs, I came skidding to a stop as a blur of red streaked by me and into the living room. Dick Cummings, my father and former stand-up comedian, dressed up as Santa Claus.
Santa. Dick.
Oh. My. God.
First of all, I really needed to work a little harder with Julia and the whole extra S with every damn word situation. And secondly, I needed to force my heart back into a normal rhythm.
I held a hand to my chest and took a few deep breaths. When that didn’t work, I took twenty more and closed my eyes. By the time I’d calmed down enough not to feel like I was going to go into some sort of cardiac arrest, Santa Dick was already passing out what appeared to be sheet music to everyone in the group, while the kids danced around him chanting, “Say Ho Ho Ho!”
Of course, Santa Dick obliged. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!”
“Yay!” Julia squealed. “Is it time for songs now?”
“It sure is, little lady,” my dad responded, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream or cry.
Lucky for me, it was at that exact moment that my husband came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “You doing okay, baby?” he whispered into my ear, and I shook my head.
He turned me in his arms and pressed me close to his chest while everyone inside the house started the first, very off-key lyrics of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
Air filled my lungs again, and the burn in my chest evaporated.
Sometimes, when things weren’t going as planned, you really just needed a hug from your person. And Kline, he was definitely my person.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered into my ear, and I leaned back to meet his eyes.
“You bought us another cabin farther up the mountain that we can go stay in right now?”
He smirked and shook his head. “I called in some favors. Ones that might earn me some of a sexual nature a little later.”
“What kind of favors?” I questioned, even as an excited shiver ran through me. “Tell me you didn’t order Santa’s Dick a prostitute?”
“Fucking hell,” he choked through a laugh. “We really need to get her to cool it with the extra S’s.”
“You’re telling me,” I responded. “When I heard her tell Ace to come downstairs to see Santa’s Dick, I nearly croaked.”
Kline chuckled. “I thought Thatch had made another gargoyle dick faux pas.”
I rolled my eyes, but my body tingled as happy memories assaulted me. Secrets and firsts and everything else that led me to this moment, in this man’s arms.
“So,” I said and nudged my hip against his, “what about these favors?”
“The rest of the meals over the next two days will be catered, by a renowned chef out of the city not with the Meals on Wheels establishment, and I managed to fix the sleeping situation.”
A laugh bubbled out of me. “Thank you.” I didn’t even know what to say. Normally, I would’ve asked him one million questions about how he managed it and inquired about the exact details of everything, but I was just too damn relieved that my husband knew I was about to break, and he took it upon himself to find a solution. “Just…thank you.”
He touched his mouth to mine.
God, I’m so fucking lucky.
Tears pricked my eyes. I couldn’t help it. Always doting, devoted, and thoughtful to his core, my husband was my fucking person. Always.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered and pressed a soft kiss to one cheek and then the other.
“These aren’t sad tears.”
“I love you, Georgia girl.”
“I love you too,” I whispered back. “So much.”
“All right, baby…” Kline smiled and held out his hand as he moved back toward the living room. “I think it’s time we join in on the Christmas carol fun.”
By the time we reached the group, they had moved on to “Jingle Bells.”
“Georgie! Kline!” Santa Dick shouted toward us. “You’re late to the caroling party! Grab some sheet music, and get with the holiday program!”
Cool it, Santa Dick.
Dressed head to toe in red velvet with a big white beard resting at the very top of his rotund belly while leading—more like forcing—our big group into another Christmas carol, my father was out of fluffing control.
But a girl could only handle so many panic attacks in a twenty-four span of time, so the only thing I could do was sing along with Santa Dick.
“Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle all the way…” he sang at the top of his lungs. “C’mon, Cassie!” Dick nodded reassuringly in my best friend’s direction and patted his big, fluffy stomach. “Santa can’t hear that beautiful voice of yours! Jingle all the way, sweetheart! Nobody likes a half-assed jingler. Ain’t that right, Georgie?”
All I could do was sigh internally, but Cassie’s reaction was far more volatile. She glared right into Santa’s jolly eyes. “Suck it, Santa Dick.”
It was safe to say I wasn’t the only one ready to strangle Santa with my bare hands.
“Suck it!” Ace repeated his mother’s words.
“Ah, man, Cass,” Thatch chimed in. “Watch the language around the kids, honey.”
She glared directly at her husband, and before additional, very colorful, completely inappropriate words could fly from my best friend’s lips, I did the only thing I could do in that moment. I started singing. At the top of my lungs.
“Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle all the way!”
Thank everything that it only took half of the first verse before everyone else was singing along with me.
Sometimes you just had to give in to the insanity and make the best of it, right?